A Yoga Practice For Living

When I think back to Shani’s murder 16 months ago, far enough removed from it to now see it from the perspective of an observer, I wonder how in the hell it is that I’m here. How did I not kill myself? How did I not drink myself into oblivion and completely self-destruct? How have I not completely lost my mind?

I read. I run. I ride. I write. I lift weights. I swim. I meditate and pray. I surround myself with loved ones and do my best to keep toxic energy out of my life. I see a therapist. I talk to Shani. I ask her for guidance. I eat healthy as much as possible. I cry. I laugh. I love. I live.

I also practice yoga.

I took my first yoga class with Shani in 2001, but it never really stuck with me until a few years ago. When I was younger, fitness for me was all about looking good, or what my ego told me I needed to have in order to look good. I wanted to be big and muscular. I took steroids in my early twenties and abused my body in order to achieve a certain physique. For me, my workouts were about ego. Not that strength or building lean muscle is a bad thing. I still lift weights as part of my exercise routine, but being the biggest and baddest dude in the gym is not my goal anymore. At 6’1”, I weighed in at over 240 pounds at my heaviest, with a one rep bench press max of 425 pounds. I was big. I was strong.

I preach about my love for yoga all the time and find it so interesting to hear the comments people make in response. So many will say that they’re not flexible and could never do it, as if they were experts at anything else in their lives before they actually took the time to practice it. I’ll hear others say that they’re turned off by the Eastern Philosophy element to it, as if taking a class is somehow a threat to their faith. Frankly, if going to a yoga class where they preach peace and acceptance challenges your belief system, then I would question the origin of your faith to begin with. Now, I do understand. You have to go with what gets you there. I mean, being an athlete my whole life, more often than not, I prefer a physically challenging class. But there are days when a restorative class is in order; something to just stretch me out, release the toxins and bring me back to some sort of balance. The kinds of classes and the instructors that teach them vary from one end of the spectrum to the other with anything and everything in between. And what I tell people is that if they will devote going to a couple of classes every week for just a couple of months, trying different instructors and types of practices, they will eventually find something that will stick.

When I look back at all of the coping mechanisms I have used in my healing process the one that stands out as the most beneficial is yoga, by far. Actually, nothing else even comes close. First of all, for those cynics out there, it can be a phenomenal physical workout. In a typical class, I sweat gallons, I swear. It’s also a moving meditation that connects me with my breath and forces me to calm my mind in the moment as I manipulate my body into physically challenging postures. And in cleansing the mind and body at the same time, I clear a pathway from within that allows me to better connect with God, the universal force guiding all things. It helps me to find stillness in the chaos. And then, when I leave the studio, I carry that connection with me throughout my day. I am less quick to anger. I am kinder to myself and those around me. Having flushed the toxins from my body I feel healthy and lean.

I have seen and heard things that we’re not meant to see or hear. I’ve heard a detective tell me over the phone that my wife was murdered by her son, shot to death in cold blood. Seven hundred miles away, my brain created a construct of my wife being ripped to shreds and suffering as she died. This continues to play in my head at some point every day. I was forced to wait four days to see her as a mandatory autopsy was performed, knowing that the love of my life was stored in a refrigerated box. Even still it brings me to tears to write this, but it’s my truth. I’ve stood above the woman I shared 10 years with and held her hand as I noticed a patched area on the side of her head where a bullet ripped through her skull. I said goodbye, alone. I’ve lived with visions and nightmares of the incident and gone months without quality sleep or rest. I gave the eulogy at her memorial. I could go on and on. It will be with me forever.

I know what it is to want to kill someone. Even worse, I believe, I know what it is to want someone to suffer for all eternity. I know what it is to play out evil scenarios in your head again and again, wishing nothing but the most horrible pain on that person’s body and soul. I know what it is to be so engulfed in anger that I could end someone’s life with my own bare hands. I have visited the depths of hell within my own soul and have stared evil in the face.

And yet, with all of this, I am finding peace in my life. I don’t get angry like I used to, and not in reference to the pain I just described, but before Shani was killed. I just don’t. I find myself in a mediator role more often now, something no one would ever have believed about me years ago. Most days, I’m not in a hurry like I used to be. I seem to be learning to take life as it comes more than I ever could have hoped for. I do my best to practice the principles I find in yoga every day. Like yoga, life is a practice, and while some days are much better than others, I would consider myself to be a better man now than ever before with hopes of continued growth until the day that I die, whenever my time comes.

I can’t begin to explain the challenge that it was to actually walk into a crowded room and practice yoga consistently after Shani died. I would feel so alone. I was self-conscious. I was intimidated. My mind would be reeling so badly that I could literally feel my body shaking as I tried to slow myself down and focus on a particular posture. I would lay back in savasana (meditation) at the end of class and the emotions would come pouring out. Tears would roll down the side of my face, and I would pray that no one would notice. But I kept showing up. I kept getting out of bed every day and doing the things that I knew would help me heal.

I think it’s interesting how we define strength in this world. If someone hurts us, somehow we think that turning away, or not engaging that person is a sign of weakness. I’m not saying that we don’t protect or stand up for ourselves, and am quite confident in my ability to do so, but you have to pick and choose your spots. So many men think that the weight room is where it’s at, and guys practicing yoga must be pussies. I said it. You know it’s true. We define strength in this society as power. So, where does strength factor into my experience? Could I not hang onto my anger and want Zeke to die for what he did? Would that be strength? Does showing up for a trial in honor of Shani as it rips me apart from the inside out represent strength? And in my daily life now, am I showing strength if my anger boils over and I project it onto someone else in my justifiable anger? It’s so simple to me now, and my answer to all of that would be an emphatic, “No,” and I know this to be the truth. My strength lies in the practice of letting go. Letting go of anger. Letting go of control. Letting go of attachments. Letting go of my past and my expectations for the future. Letting go of my prejudices and judgments. My strength comes from being in the moment. My strength shows when I am kind to myself and to others. My strength comes from all that is God, and I have found more of a connection to my Source through my practice than I have ever felt anywhere else.

Namaste.